A street is dusty there is grit on my feet.
Meat hanging about from a left over stew
Bony cats cling to doorsteps
Like furry door mats and there are a few
Keeping the draughts out from the valley
Blowing a disease on bated breath.
A cat dares to hope or so it seems
But with this only bring a painful death.
The street so full of filth
from shoes, the smoke, and waste
brings creepers from every angle
A broken fishing line dares
with hope hanging thinks it can dangle
into a stream, hoping for a dream fish
to bite, but it wont, it is not there
it drowned in the sea of doom
where there are trawlers and fishermen
with shiny nets and no dust in their room
Leaves, crunching underfoot of the passer by
staring at himself in windows, wiped
till they are bone dry.
The park gates, daily washed by the thankful dog
picking its leg up conveniently at this stop
through the stench, the mist and the pea-soup fog
it wanders with the peacocks where feathers drop
on the dusty lane, the ***** street where cats sleep.